Today I’m home from Northampton, home from Amsterdam, from the tiny town of Giethoorn, Holland, all homes for a time. When I arrived yesterday morning, debating dropping off Richard’s car at the shop or coming home first to drop off my bags, Ben Harper and his mom were singing to me on the radio, and I chose home first, shop second, so I could take a listen. Here’s their song for you, youtube style:

Some days I do wonder where home is, especially days when it’s just me and the cat here, even more so when the cat is here on her own, poor Frances girl. Home is with my kids, wherever we are, with my beau, wherever we are, with my friends and family, wherever we are, in the day care here, or making my way from home to Northampton or here to LeRoy and Pavilion and Attica, New York, where I grew up, walking around Somerville and Boston, on the campus of the Healey or Sudbury Valley Schools, in the living room of the Charter School Founders Group, at the park with my day care buddies, all those places are home. Still the house is here, home to me and my kids and my ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, current guy for over twenty years, and it’s got its own vibe, is a hard place to imagine leaving, though these days I do spend time wondering if and when and how.

When I come back from other places, where I’ve mostly lived with a few things, clothes, books, computer, phone, I wonder at this four level house of stuff. I’d just as soon be rid of lots of it, but the memories are imbedded and the time and energy it takes to sift through those is time I’d rather devote to living.

Monday Richard and I walked in the woods of Mount Toby, a place I’ve never been, a place he’s walked a lot. At the top there is a fire tower, which we climbed, hoping to be let in by a worker who drove ahead of us on an ATV and was too busy working when we were up top to let us have a look from inside the tower. Instead we sunbathed at the base of the tower, a ritual of Richard’s climbs, new to me. To have the earth warm enough below us to lie for half an hour, faces to the sun, was a new pleasure, first time for me this spring. Walking back down the mountain, we passed a group of older women hikers, seeming to be in the same spot they had been when we hiked up, halfway up the trail, but this time they were split in two, one group walking down the mountain further up the trail, the other group waiting down below, one of whom commented as we passed that one of the members of the slower group was getting “you know what”. All I could imagine was old.

Richard is fifteen years older than I am. Getting old is something we think about a lot. For now, though, we are hiking, enjoying a fine life together. Halfway across the Atlantic, up in the air with Aer Lingus, tears came to my eyes, out of the blue, as I imagined Richard at 96 like his mom, me at 81, like the parents of my good friends Laura and Dave. I figure he’ll be a fine old man. I don’t’ count on dying first. Life will have to go on. Until then, though, I’m pretty happy hiking, drinking maple milk and tea and sharing salads at the Book Mill cafe, browsing the shelves of new and used books after wards, going home to Richard’s Northampton place for a quiet Monday night on our own after a busy weekend of socializing in Northampton and Somerville, after a week apart while I was traveling, before heading back to Somerville on my own. We don’t make big plans to plant a garden or remodel the house. We don’t buy furniture or make children. We aren’t building careers or even a social circle. We’re holding on, keeping things going, trying to sort out life in two cities, one small and one big, mixing up our family and friends little by little, trying to figure out retired and working, older and younger, his kids and mine, two/three homes, much older mom and not so much older mom, both dads gone.

When I was in Amsterdam, I thought I would visit the Ann Frank House. We didn’t, for lots of reasons. Richard’s parents came to the US during the Nazi era, lost many members of their families, their homes and livelihoods, and started fresh here, supporting both sets of parents, building new lives, bearing and raising three sons. Its a story I’m interested to learn and join, one as a descendent of German emigres I feel I ought to know. Today a friend liked a Humans of New York photo and story that made me smile, happy that as the subject said, “You can’t kill a people with hate. There will always be someone left to to carry on”..lucky for me that Hilde and John Brunswick carried on, to make the man I love, giving me another chance to try and make a life that’s not so on my own. Here’s the HONY, so you can see and hear the woman as I did:

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